


shake hands

by zealotarchaeologist



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Touching, only gets shippy at the end sorry, this ended up in 5+1 format but not on purpose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealotarchaeologist/pseuds/zealotarchaeologist
Summary: It's impossible to go through life without making any connections. All you have to do is reach out and touch.
Relationships: Sam Porter Bridges/Higgs Monaghan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 76





	shake hands

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Чтобы пожать руки…](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25590532) by [Greenmusik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenmusik/pseuds/Greenmusik)



> i am not immune to higgs monaghan.

“Weather didn’t give you trouble, I hope?”

Higgs shrugs, shakes his head. The sky’s been a threatening grey all morning, but the rain never broke. Made for an easy delivery. He was careful. He always is.

The prepper seems happy enough to see it, though he takes his sweet time looking over the package. A gardener, this one calls himself, smaller than Higgs but with a broad body that hasn't withered from life underground. Little seeds in that box, sprouting, tiny green shoots reaching up towards...nothing. The closed lid of the package. Darkness.

“How’d I do?” He says, leaning down a little. It’s a polite question. He knows there’s not a scratch on that box, he’s damn good at his job.

The guy flashes him a thumbs up. "Really good. Not often we get something this nice." He tries not to preen. Most bigger outfits don't come out here, and the independent porters can't compete with him.

Higgs gets his payment in the form of another box, shiny silver and far less delicate. He hooks it onto his backpack immediately. The weight of it is a comfort. Enough water and rations for the next couple days. Until he finds the next job. It's not particularly glamorous, but already he can't imagine choosing any other life. It keeps him alive, sure, but more importantly it keeps him outside, keeps him under the sky.

The prepper inspects him like the package. No doubt trying to square the person in front of him with what he's heard about _that Monaghan kid._ His height, his skinny frame, the porter suit that doesn’t quite fit. Higgs stands tall despite it, won't ever hunch in on himself again. He gets by.

“How long have you been walking?” The soft expression on the prepper’s face turns his stomach. He doesn’t need any pity, thank you kindly. "You’re welcome to come in and rest. Bet you haven’t eaten fresh food in a while either, we can fix you something--” The man reaches out for him. One big hand, clapping him on the shoulder. 

The instant he makes contact, adrenaline takes over. Higgs moves fast, practiced. Daddy taught him right. Even if he didn’t know he was teaching. The knife comes out quick--a bootknife took off a porter a few months back. Corpses always take care of him. It's barely a blade. More of an awl. He holds the point of it to the man’s throat, shoves him hard against the door of the shelter. “Ain’t going anywhere with you.” He snarls. 

The man puts his hands up, surrender on either side of his head. Weak. Who does he think he’s kidding? “You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice shaky. His eyes are wide and searching. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.”

Higgs scoffs. The air smells like fear and he knows it must be coming off this man because he wasn’t afraid, even for a second, he’s not weak. “Sure.” His heart might be pounding in his chest, but he’s not weak.

Obviously, he’s not going to kill anyone if he doesn’t have to. Obviously. Be a hell of a lot of trouble getting to an incinerator and if he didn’t, the eventual voidout would probably take this whole area with it. He doesn’t want that. Really. These folks might not be friendly, but they’re his community. His own shelter isn’t too far away. Fuck, he’s gonna have to move on now. The thought cuts through his adrenaline fog, hurts. Can’t trust this guy, can’t really trust any of em.

The man is shaking, trembling like a branch in the wind. His hand had been firm. Strong. But the hollow of his throat is so delicate. Higgs pulls his arm back. Keeps the knife out in his hand. “Package delivered.” He sneers, kicks the box at him. Shakes the little plants inside. “Go on, crawl back into your hole.” The man goes, and doesn’t look back. He’s decided what he thinks of that Monaghan kid.

Higgs can’t get out of the shelter fast enough. And ah, there it is, the dappled blue and grey of the sky. Mostly grey today, but he doesn’t mind. He takes a little moment to look up there, every time. The air smells so clean. Smells like rain. 

He’s probably not getting any more orders from here, huh. Good riddance, he thinks, tamps down on the small part of him that mourns the loss. Probably time for him to branch out a little, anyway. The sky, open and dark above him, seems to agree.

It's a beautiful night. They've dragged the remains of a shipping tarp up to the roof of one of the old buildings in the harbor, spread it out over the rusty metal. Lights from machinery shine off the lake. More and more people move below ground every day, but for now there's still a little bit of life in what must have been a great city, now gone to rust. No clouds in the sky tonight--of course they wouldn't be out there otherwise. The stars are faint beyond that chiral layer but there's light there, still reaching out.

Fragile gets it. She might play the diplomat, the negotiator, but there’s a reason they always come out here when they need to talk one-on-one. She didn’t grow up in a city. There is something in her, like him, that wants the open sky.

(But she didn’t grow up in a hole in the ground, either. There are some things she won’t ever understand.)

She uncorks their champagne with a satisfying sound, passes Higgs the bottle without ceremony. Dusty and miraculously still intact, dragged out of a basement on cargo recovery today. The caved in remains of the place had been crawling with BTs, but between the two of them it had been simple as breathing. While everything else was distributed to its proper place, Fragile had tucked the bottle under her arm and given him a private smile.

“How do you think it’s going?” She looks at him, directly at him. It’s genuine. It’s a test. She’s had a lot to say--about how a leader _should_ do things, about listening to your people. 

But Higgs is not her employee. He gets the sense she would be more comfortable if he was. “Think I should be asking you.” He tips the champagne back. It's better than he expected, even after however many years in the rubble. He swallows, hands the bottle back to her. “Was hard enough to convince you.” 

She smiles a little at that, takes a careful sip. The merge has gone well. This past month has been a trial run of sorts, the two of them watching each other. In a few days they'll start sticking to their own territory again. Higgs isn't lonely, but it's been kind of nice, running with a partner he can rely on. Someone with real power.

“I think,” she says, considering him, “I misjudged you. You’re more...solid than I thought. More than just ideas.” From anyone else it might seem a backhanded compliment. Over the past few weeks though, he’s gotten used to Fragile’s particular way of speaking. 

“Solid, huh." That's a new one. A good sign, though. Better than most things he's been called. She respects hard work. Warmth is starting to settle in his stomach, creeping up on him. "You’re not so fragile yourself.”

Even in the dark, Higgs can see her roll her eyes. "Oh, very funny."

They lapse into comfortable silence, then, trading the bottle back and forth. Fragile watches over the port from above. She’s said plenty of times she has no interest in leading anything other than the Express, but that’s still her ship in the harbor. It’s still her company that keeps the lights on in this part of the country. They ought to leverage that while they can.

As if reading his mind, she looks back at him, eyes glittering in the dark. "I meant it seriously. I'm trusting you with my father’s legacy."

 _That's nice. I never knew my father. Called a man daddy though, and he beat me every day._ He doesn't say it. Any word he thinks about it sticks in his throat. It's not the first time he's wanted to tell her. It's pointless. Weak. So instead he just takes a drink and washes the words down.

It's getting cold. Fragile draws the tarp around them. She leans slightly against him, shoulder to shoulder, unselfconscious. Her weight is solid, steady. It’s novel, the way she’s not concerned about touch the way most people are these days. Self assurance is written in the way she moves. Easy to be that way when you have power, when no one ever dared to raise a hand against you.

The night sky is all-encompassing here, so deep that looking up at it makes him feel like drowning. This is the beginning of something, it has to be. He'll be a part of something bigger. All of this is going to mean something. It has to.

Fragile's shoulder nudges his, her presence grounding in the vastness. But where she casts her protective gaze down at the city, Higgs can't stop staring up into the sky. The world is so big compared to them. There's only so much two people can do.

The waves are quiet but insistent here, lapping at the shore. That’s always the first part that brings him to awareness. Every nightmare, every dream begins with waves.

Higgs doesn’t feel like he’s dreaming. He feels wide awake and so fucking alive. The sky is red and beautiful, the premonition of the falling moon branding itself into his mind.

It's a relief, waking up here. Better than the nothingness of sleep and then the banal world again, another day at the grind. The rest of the world doesn’t seem real lately, not now that he’s seen the truth of it all. Every day he wakes, and lashes out any way he can think of. And it barely makes him feel anything. Only this, only the Beach feels real. Nothing else matters.

Amelie is waiting for him like she always is. Back turned, facing out to sea. Scanning the horizon for what, he’ll never know. Signs of the end to come, maybe.

“Amelie.” He says, announcing his presence as if she couldn’t already feel it. As if she didn’t bring him here for a reason. She doesn’t say anything. Just waits for him. It's what she's best at.

Higgs moves closer, long strides over the sand. A star falls. It arcs across the horizon, bright and glorious, and never reaches the water. Suspended forever in the moment of its death.

Time moves strangely here. The wind and tides don't move according to any pattern in nature. Instead they wrap around Amelie, conform to her gravity. Her dress stirs and flutters because she wills it so. It's beautiful. Even the first time he got blood on his hands, it never looked so red as this.

Finally she turns to him, acknowledges him. Her face is beatific. Shimmering tear tracks drip down her cheeks. She sees him, really sees him, in a way no mask can hide. Her eyes cut through everything.

Those blue eyes go wide as she takes him in, sees his forehead. “What have you done,” she murmurs, her voice so gentle. Always so gentle. Higgs leans down when she reaches for him, soft slender hands cupping his face. She’s warm.

“Signed my name, angel.” Every word is a prayer. She doesn’t like being called that, prefers the false name Amelie. He doesn’t understand. Why does she insist on pretending? “Practicing my cursive.”

Her fingers ghost over the raised letters on his forehead, red and raw. Fresh. It hurts when she touches them, but it’s not bad. The sharp, scraping sort of pain that reminds him he’s alive. It had felt sort of the same when he was writing them. Hurt less then than it does now. Amelie’s touch resurrects the pain, brings it flaring back to life.

Something flickers in her eyes for a moment. The echo of a mother’s concern, mirrored and distorted until it’s unrecognizeable. Then her hands cradle his face again. His forehead pulses, aches for her benediction to return. But it’s as easily gone as it’s given. Her hands fall to her sides. The warmth and light are all too fleeting. Without her blessing, a wound is just a wound. And it’s harder to get her attention lately. All she talks about is her damn brother.

“I need to know you won’t be distracted.” Still so gentle, even as she rebukes him. Of course she wouldn’t understand. She’s something beyond naming. Something so powerful it doesn’t have to carve meaning out of the world like mortals do. “Are you with me?”

“Always.” Higgs goes to his knees, drops his head forward. The raw skin of his forehead burns where it presses against her thigh. It feels like relief.

The rest of the Beach fades away, his entire awareness concentrated on the point of contact. Her skin is a balm. Soft and impossibly smooth. More real than reality. This is the only thing that matters, the only higher power. Amelie standing over him, red everywhere, blocking out the sky.

He makes it rain all the time now. Wherever he goes, he wants the sky to match. Wants to see people scurry and flee. It doesn't even give him that thrill of power it used to, doesn't scratch the itch, but at least it puts him in the right mood.

So there’s always rain with him in the campsites, the sky grim and dark, but his Demens do not run. Tonight they revel in the rain, preparing for war. It’s war to them, at least. To him it’s fucking tiresome at this point. Just another thing he can throw at Sam fucking Bridges.

He used to read a lot, whatever he could get his hands on. He's never been to old-world war but there are pictures in his mind. Details that stuck out to him. Bone emerging from blown-off leg. Stray dogs picking through the battlefield.

Higgs is not a dog but a jackal. He stalks through the camp and people feel it, everywhere he goes. The presence of their leader. The floodlights glow a little brighter. The men strap golden jawbones to their armor, pack more grenades. When he’s there, they don’t plan on coming back alive.

He walks through the tents, listens to his people talk. He used to be so good at it--finding the weak links, talking them into strength. Good at it still, when he bothers, but he doesn’t feel it anymore. All the fragile little connections formed in this place will snap soon. So pointless.

Still, he listens out of habit. Picks out the ones that are too loud, a few too quiet. The scent of fear and death on them. One at the back of the tent, cleaning his gun, taking it apart and putting it back together in the hope the thing won’t fail.

Their helmet is off so they can focus on the work. Dark, ragged hair framing a soft round face.The kid can’t be older than fifteen. He feels--

Nothing special about that at all. No.

Higgs approaches, a jackal in the camp, weighing the hearts of the weak. The kid stops at the sight of their leader. Looks up from the gun with admiration and fear and even a little anger. Good.

“Having trouble with that?” He sidles over casually, stands behind them to watch them work with the gun. They have clever hands, but they're shaking.

“No.” They say, too quick. “No, I just want--to be ready.”

“You killed a man before?”

Choices flicker over the kid’s face. God, it’s so easy with people who don’t know to wear masks. Maybe saying yes wins status, keeps them in good standing. Maybe saying no explains their fear, lets them keep some secrets.

“Yeah,” they say, looking away from Higgs. Back down to the gun where it lays dismantled, autopsied on the table. “Once. Not with this, though.” 

Their shoulders hunch. A close quarters fight. It had been desperate. It had felt good, and then it had left them empty and lost. Ashamed of how good it had felt. Ashamed of how scared they were. And that, Higgs supposes, is where he and his Demens had come in. Picked them up and made them a part of something greater. He leans in closer, watching over their shoulder. Anxiety radiates off them in waves.

Higgs feels the touch before his brain really registers it. The impact of a hard palm shoved against his chest, the force of a too-skinny arm behind it. It doesn’t hurt, probably wouldn’t even if he wasn’t wearing his gear, but the surprise of it knocks him a step backward.

The kid freezes immediately, eyes huge, prey animal fear in the air. It must have been an instinctive gesture, otherwise they never would have dared--to touch a god--

Higgs throws his head back and laughs a jackal laugh. “That’s the spirit!”

The weight echoes through his chest. Been a while since anyone managed to hit him. The kid looks at their hand. Now they know what they're capable of, know that their body can beat its fear. Good. Shame they’re all gonna die soon, anyway.

He unholsters one of his rifles, plated with chiralium. Shoves it into the kid’s chest and their skinny arms come up to grasp at it, hug it close. Their eyes are glittering like their new sacred weapon. Their spine straighter with the imagined blessing of their god. Some of these bullets are going to taste Sam's flesh, he just knows it.

“Now,” he grins wide and the thunder rolls. “You’re ready to raise some hell.”

The sky on the Beach is a storm, waiting to break. It all comes down to this. He’s fucking tired. Sam is too, and it’s making him angry, raw and honest. Good. Higgs throws his knife aside.

His thoughts grey out. Adrenaline kicks in. No words but: hit. Hit him. Strike him, claw, whatever you can. Grab him, hit him, fucking hit him. Only flesh on flesh matters. Only blood under the nails matters. Only his hands, his hands, no point in moving, wait for impact. Wait for contact. Love it. Cling to it. Want more of it.

His mouth is moving, he’s saying words but he doesn’t even hear them. Light breaks through the clouds. It feels like love. A fist cracks his jaw. It feels like freedom.

Desperate. He surges, throws his whole body against Sam. Their skulls crack together and it feels right. This is right. This is what he was meant to do. Lash out. Bite down. Sam’s blood in his mouth salty and rich and he would chew and swallow if the time was right for it.

Raw chaos in his frame, in his movements. Sam’s face: angry, Sam’s body: solid. Higgs wants to tear him apart and devour every part of him. His body, exhausted. The spirit’s willing but the flesh is weak.

One last try. His arms grasp out, uncontrolled, for anything, to touch anything. Finds purchase in the vulnerable skin and muscle of Sam’s neck. Digs in for all he’s worth. I can beat you, I can beat you. Sam’s hands closing over his, pulling, desperate. It feels so good. He wants those hands all over him, in his mouth, on the inside of his skull.

The contact. His blood sings with it. Contact. Sam’s hands, hands on him one more time and he falls, and no hands catch him.

A gun is too mundane. Too mortal. So Higgs wades into the water. He floats.

For a long time. He doesn’t know how long. Something Amelie said--alone, there’s no difference between being alive and dead. Ha ha. Sometimes she’s there, with him, pulling him into the water. It doesn’t matter, really, if it’s real or not. He floats. Drifts away. There’s no meaning here, no time. Nothing changes.

When he comes to, there are hands on him.

Higgs kicks out, twists and thrashes like a snake. A frustrated sound in response. The feeling of hands holding fast to his shoulders, holding him down.

"I have to--" A familiar voice he thought he'd never hear again, quiet and angry. "I can't, Sam."

"'S fine." Is the rumbled response. _Sam_. Sam's voice. "I got it from here." 

Hands are on him again, Sam's hands. He would know the feeling anywhere. Higgs tries to open his eyes but it's all so bright. He snarls and shuts them again, slams his head back. "Easy, come on." Says Sam. _Sam Sam Sam…_

"Sam," he manages, his voice rough and weak from disuse. His throat feels like it’s burning. Like he’s been choking for hours. Distantly, he knows the feeling: swallowed saltwater. But he can’t remember it. Just the water, and then this. Sam.

Everywhere those hands touch, it hurts. His body is so lit up with pain it’s hard to tell where it’s all coming from. It takes the whole of his energy to keep his eyes barely open. Even so, he can’t see much beyond Sam’s body.

He’s so fucked. He’s trapped. Underground here in one of their fucking cells. It’s just one prison traded for another.

That thought grants him a little more desperate energy. Helps him fight more. He lashes out, digs his nails into vulnerable flesh. Sam huffs at him but doesn’t sound angry, doesn’t hit him. “Would you stay still for one damn second,” he mutters, strong arms curling under his legs, around his back. Higgs twists against the hold. He won’t be trapped again. 

But the more he takes in, the less this looks like a Bridges facility. None of their bland, sanitized tech, none of the fancy little lights. There’s too much color here, pictures on the walls, nothing matches. Everything is bright and overstimulating. Sam’s touch hurts, sure, but it’s worse when he pulls away. Like if Sam doesn’t touch him then maybe this is a dream, maybe he’s still alone. He can’t say it, a wordless, tired sound coming out instead. “I’m right here.” Sam says, maybe understanding. “Just sit tight.” And then he’s gone, leaving Higgs alone, curled up into himself.

He can't fight anymore, his body too exhausted. So he floats again, drifts in and out of awareness. It's all clear now. He understands. He's nothing. None of it meant anything, he never meant anything. There has never been a plan for him. There is nothing awaiting him. Nothing. He tries to laugh, but his throat hurts too much. Fuck, he really must have drowned. Maybe this is just another dream before death.

It takes a moment for him to realize Sam is back, an armful of gauze and cloth with him. He doesn’t seem real until he touches Higgs again, a firm touch on one of the cuts on his face. Pretty sure Sam gave him that one. It stings, sharp and bright, the pain lancing across his senses. Sam doesn’t scold him for flinching away. Just keeps moving, like always. Steady. Relentless.

That steady touch moves over his face, down his body. He doesn’t remember losing his outer clothes, but at least they haven’t stripped him naked. He shivers. He wants his cloak. He wants his fucking mask.

It feels like hours pass, Sam careful and meticulous with his work. The pain sears hot wherever he touches. Higgs watches him bandage the worst of the damage, clean the rest. Undoing his own handiwork. It makes him feel--

“Why are you doing this?” His throat burns, but it has to be said. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, like it’s coming from some other, weaker body.

Sam doesn’t stop, his horrible touch omnipresent. “You’re hurt.” He says plainly, something rougher than usual in his voice. “We dragged you out of the fucking ocean.” 

That wasn’t what he meant, but he doesn’t have it in him to ask again. "Sick of your goody two shoes bullshit, Bridges." He growls instead. Sam makes a sound that might be a laugh. Higgs thought about that, when he was alone. That he made Sam laugh. That he had never heard anyone else manage the same.

He retreats back into silence, watches Sam's face scrunched up in serious concentration at the task. He hasn't looked Higgs in the eyes yet. Even when he finishes with the last of the scrapes and bruises, he avoids looking at his face. "Can you stand?" He says, his gaze focused on their hands.

Can he stand? He doesn't think so. His body is shaky. But it's that or ask for help, so. Higgs tries to plant his feet firmly, but the solid floor feels strange. Been at sea for too long. His legs struggle to find purchase.

Without saying a word, Sam takes his arm, wraps it around his own shoulders. He stands them up like that, supports Higgs' weight like he's a piece of cargo.

They walk like that, shaky, together, into a darkened room. It registers, then, that this really isn't a Bridges facility. Too big, and the light is wrong. Not artificial and glaring, but the faint natural light of an overcast day. From outside. They're not underground.

The tension drops suddenly from his body. Sam takes his weight without complaint, helps ease him down onto the makeshift bed. The touch hurts. It's too much. His body has other ideas, though, can't want anything more than to fall, horizontal, onto the soft surface.

Sam doesn't join him laying down. He can't decide if that's good or not, if he wants that. It's too much to think about. The bed shifts, creaks as Sam sits beside him, legs hanging over the edge. He doesn’t try to touch anymore. But finally, he looks Higgs in the face.

It burns worse than the touch. 

It’s not like the fight. Not like any time he’s looked at Sam before. This is a different man. This isn’t a dream. This is--

Higgs is too tired to hold the eye contact for more than a second, can't keep his eyes open. They focus, unfocus. His gaze keeps drifting beyond Sam, the source of the distant light behind him. There’s a window. There’s the world. He’s truly not underground. Light is coming through, however faintly. Dark blue and grey in the distance, beyond them. Not the sea, but the sky.


End file.
